


Thirty Ways To Woo Arthur

by AndreaLyn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur begins to notice a variety of small changes in Eames, which slowly start to amalgamate to have an effect on the way he looks at Eames and the way he lives his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty Ways To Woo Arthur

It starts, as most things do in Arthur’s life, without much fanfare. Slowly, very slowly, Arthur starts to notice that Eames is doing things differently and that it’s been happening for a few weeks, now. Soon, Arthur will figure out that this once changes like this are in motion, it's very hard to get them to stop.

It results in both the best and worst year of Arthur’s whole life.

*

**Improve your diet**

At first, Arthur is offended. He recognizes Eames’ sloppy writing on the piece of paper slipped under his hotel door and is immediately insulted at the instruction. “What the hell, Eames?” he snaps as soon as Eames picks up the phone. “Improve my _diet_? Are you _kidding me_?” he goes on irritably, rolling his eyes as he shrugs on his button-down and cradles his cell against his shoulder.

“I never said it was _your_ diet that needed improving,” Eames replies. “You sound rushed, are you rushed?”

“I’m changing, Eames, it’s eight in the morning,” he reminds him of the obvious, opening his closet to start selecting his ties. “Purple or red?”

“It depends what shirt you’re wearing,” Eames says without any prompting and for all of his irritating habits, Arthur has always enjoyed Eames’ ability to read people’s body language and verbal cues. “If it’s the light blue, then the purple. If you’re in the white shirt, red.”

Arthur slides out the red tie and heads back into the bedroom. “If it’s not my diet that needs improving, then what was that note about, Eames?”

“You’ll see.”

Never have there ever been more terrifying words in the English language.

(He doesn’t really notice until months later, but when he meets Eames for dinner that night, Eames orders the salmon and greens – the healthiest thing on the menu and he looks better than he did the last time Arthur saw him, not that he’s ever looked that bad to begin with)

**Get more sleep**

“Go to bed.”

“What are you, my mother?” Arthur snaps. The mere fact that he’s snapping is probably cause enough for Eames to be telling him to go to bed, but he will not be cowed. He will not be moved and he will not notice how well-rested and glowing Eames seems to be, like he’s been hoarding all of the precious sleep from Arthur and it’s going to take an AK-47 to pry it from his goddamn arms.

…maybe Arthur really does need to sleep.

They’ve been working the Simmons job for the last three weeks and have hit a seemingly impossible roadblock in the research. Arthur refuses to believe anything is impossible and has sunk his teeth into the matter, spending every waking hour looking into things. The past three days, ‘waking hour’ can be used to describe pretty much all of them as Arthur has forsaken sleep for this job.

Eames, of course, looks brilliantly well-rested, the bastard.

“Arthur, if I were your mother, the terribly kinky thoughts I have about you would send both of us to therapy,” Eames says. “Bed.”

“And I suppose you’re going to put me there?”

“Not at all,” Eames says, prying the papers forcibly from Arthur’s hands. “I’ve been well-rested for the last week. It’s your turn. I’ll take over. You may know facts, but I know people. I’ll lend a unique perspective while you restore your rest.”

Arthur has to admit that it sounds like a perfect plan.

Hours later when Arthur wakes and feels like himself again, he only hates it slightly because Eames was the one to think of it.

**Get to the dentist.**

“Do you think I need to see someone?” Eames asks as he stares into a mirror with his mouth wide-open, making a variety of sounds. This wouldn’t be strange – well, it is strange, but it wouldn’t be _as_ strange – if they weren’t in a department store’s makeup section with Eames inspecting his teeth.

Arthur has never been more embarrassed in his life. They’re supposed to be picking up a birthday present for Ariadne and they’ve devolved into mad theatre.

It’s just another day in Arthur’s life.

“A therapist?” Arthur replies easily. “Yes, Eames, yes, I do think you need to see someone.”

“No, a dentist.” But the words come out muffled because Eames hasn’t bothered to close his mouth. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to smile politely at passing saleswomen as if that will convince them not to call the cops about the potential madmen in their store.

This is ridiculous. “Can we please just buy something and go?”

“They’re all crooked,” Eames mutters, rubbing his jaw with his broad palm. “And there’s space between them.”

“Perfection is boring, Mr. Eames. Now, we’re already late and neither of us have a gift. Let’s _go_.”

**Get a haircut.**

It’s not that Arthur spends all of his time watching Eames, but considering they’ve started working together with great regularity because the people in their business are retiring and they don’t trust the new ones yet, it’s something of a side-effect.

Lately, Eames looks _good_.

Arthur tries to pinpoint it. Eames always has a habit of being charismatic and attracting all the attention in the room, but his abysmal matching abilities and his random array of gorgeous features that come together to look average always set him back. It takes a few days, but Arthur finally figures it out.

“You stopped gelling your hair back.”

They’re in the middle of lunch and Susanna – the extractor – has started sliding flirtatious fingers over their chemists’ hand. Eames has been watching the two women with pride and amusement and Arthur smacks him on the back of the head lightly to get his attention.

Which is how he figures it out. There’s no gel coating his fingers as he pulls his hand away.

“Can’t a man try a new haircut?” Eames wonders. “Especially a man who doesn’t want to keep his image much the same in case of…well, you know.”

Eames is allowed to change his hair, Arthur supposes.

The problematic part of it, though, happens to be when Eames’ lanky – free of hold – hair falls over his forehead when he bends down in concentration. The problem is that Arthur is gripped by the incessant need to push it back and to run his fingers through the strands and keep it tucked away in some kind of style.

“I liked it better before,” Arthur says coolly as he turns away to try and quiet his racing thoughts and still his pounding heart.

At the very least, occupying his mind on lunch with Susanna and Meera means that Arthur’s cock doesn’t even get a chance to enter the race to lose a stunning amount of dignity.

**Update your wardrobe**

“You match.”

It’s the apocalypse. It has to be.

“You match. And you look good.”

“Yes, ha ha, regular comedian, you are,” Eames deadpans, barely glancing up from his book. “Can we work, now? Or do you need to touch the fabric and ensure it’s not a fake. Which, it’s not. So feel free.”

He’s probably joking, but Arthur gets up from his chair to cross over and press his fingers to the fabric, making a real show in the hotel room. Ariadne is starting to look a little wide-eyed and worried.

“Did we start drinking?”

“It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve matched,” Eames is complaining as Arthur feels up the inseam and Eames lets out a hitched breath. “I mean, it’s just that I’ve been making a concerted effort and…”

“Don’t stop. You actually look respectable now,” Arthur says. “I wouldn’t even mind being seen in public with you.”

“Ah. Well, then,” Eames remarks, his gaze brightening. “Lunch?”

**Get a new pair of glasses**

Arthur blames football.

He also blames Eames, but he doubts that Eames went and booked every last hotel room in the town they’re in. It’s really more likely (and true) that a local match has driven parents and friends into every last room of the hotel. The annoying part of all this is that they’re only twenty minutes from Eames’ country home.

“We could…”

“Just drive, Eames,” Arthur sighs, still making phone calls to ensure that by the time Yusuf and their extractor arrive, that there are rooms _then_ at least.

They get to the small house by nightfall and Eames takes all the bags inside while Arthur paces up and down the gravel driveway and fights with three different sales representatives, lobbying around his hotel points, and finally manages to get _one_ room.

He hangs up and trudges inside with the hint of failure at his heels. “Well, Yusuf and Nathan can stay at the hotel, but we might need to set up operations here,” he admits, hanging up his coat on the rack just inside the foyer.

He’s been here before, but only because Eames has a habit of strongholding Arthur into a drink after a job well done.

The look of the place stays the same. The furniture hasn’t changed and the kitchen looks like it’s been recently painted. The only thing that looks different is Eames.

“What’s different about you?” Arthur asks aloud, heading closer.

Eames is reclining on the leather sofa with his laptop idly beside him and he pokes away at it. He’s in his jeans and Man U shirt and is wearing a pair of socks and… _glasses_.

“Don’t even start,” Eames warns tiredly before Arthur can open his mouth and get the words he wants to in edgewise. “The optometrist says it’s only now started fading.”

“Your vision,” Arthur wants to get it out aloud and the words are heavily bemused. “Eames, I think you’re getting…”

“Stop it! Stop it now,” Eames growls, throwing a balled-up sock in Arthur’s direction. “Let’s see how you feel when suddenly you’re forty and things start to blur. Perfect vision, I had,” he maligns as he pries off the glasses and waves the black frames by the arms. “Do you at least like them?”

Arthur turns to take off his shoes because it doesn’t do to be in a man’s house with your shoes still on.

It also lets Arthur neatly avoid answering the question.

(“Keep them on and take everything else off,” he knows is not really what you say when a man asks if you like his glasses).

**Shine your shoes**

Arthur groans wearily.

It _hurts_ to move, let alone make any attempt at words. He’s had far too much to drink in celebration of a job gone well and he thought it was only prudent to celebrate. Cobb and Eames were safe teammates to drink around. At least, he’d thought so until they kept foisting shots on him.

So here he is, collapsed on the floor at Eames’ feet, observing his very impressive shoes.

“I think I see my reflection,” he says, as if in awe.

He waves, just to check.

Yes, that’s him all right.

“Cobb,” Eames says from very high above him. “We’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Right.” That’s Cobb, floating somewhere way up there. “Next time, no tequila.”

“Next time?” Arthur isn’t sure if that’s him or Eames sounding so incredulous. Either way, Eames’ shoes are very, very shiny. He sort of likes that about a man.

**Buy new cologne**

Typically when Eames heads out for the evening in a new town, he comes out from his hotel bathroom leaving behind the strongest of odors that Arthur could swear that he’d simply bathed in cologne. They’re in Florence and Eames has been in the bathroom for the last hour.

Arthur is getting tired of reading Italian Vogue and that’s saying something.

He lets the magazine collapse on his lap as he gives a tired sigh. “Eames, are we going out? Because at the speed you’re moving, the Italians could build Rome again,” he says dryly, picking up the magazine once more to flip through the advertisements for new colognes.

Eames opens the door to join the world of the dressed five minutes later and Arthur doesn’t even realize he’s finished. There’s a distinct lack of a need to plug his nose and beg for mercy.

In fact, if Arthur were asked, he might even describe the scent that Eames is wearing as subdued and intoxicating, heavy citrus and a slight hint of white rose, the chemistry balanced properly so that it’s not feminine. The more pressing matter is that Eames doesn’t seem as though he’s showered it all over him.

“ _Vieni qua_ ,” prods Eames with a smirk, crooking a finger in Arthur’s direction, trying to pull him closer. “ _Andiamo, ragazzo?_ ” He reaches forward and hauls Arthur to his feet, bunching his fingers in the material of Arthur’s suit jacket and pressing their bodies practically flush together.

“Eames,” Arthur lets out a laugh of surprise. “You smell good.”

“ _Grazie, grazie_ ,” Eames says, practically purring his thanks.

It’s horrific enough that it makes Arthur shove Eames away, rolling his eyes. “You really think you’re going to get laid acting like that?”

Eames’ wordless answer (letting the smug smile on his face speak for him) is both infuriating and unsettling.

Arthur needs to leave before the unsettling becomes something else entirely.

**Bring your suits to the tailor**

Arthur’s tailor can’t fit him in for an appointment.

It’s ridiculous. Arthur has been going to the same man in New York City for years now and has a bond of trust with Giovanni. No one knows his measurements like the man and when he’s told that he’s going to have to book for a different time, twelve years of loyalty is what prods his hackles into rising.

“You said it was slow season,” Arthur says heatedly over the phone with Julie, the assistant.

“It was,” she protests and lets out a heavy sigh. “Look, do you know a Mr. Eames?”

Arthur clenches his teeth together tightly. He should have known that telling Eames all about his tailor would be a mistake. At the time (sprawled over the rug at Eames’ place, watching football, eating pizza straight from the box), it had seemed innocent enough, but now Eames has gone and stole the man from him.

“What about Mr. Eames?” Arthur asks icily.

“He said you referred him and well,” Julie goes on, sounding flush with amazement, her voice warm, “he’s brought us in enough business to get us through the month in just a week. He wants _all_ his suits fit for him. He said, he said that he had a friend who taught him that if you want people to take you seriously, you have to look--”

“—the part,” Arthur finishes with her, the words incredibly familiar, considering he had shouted them at Eames heatedly when a job had fallen through in London just weeks ago.

Eames’ clothes had been a tipoff to the mark.

Arthur had flown off the handle and had spent twenty minutes dismissing every inch of Eames’ clothes. The professional comment had been his last shout before he’d stormed off, telling Eames that he should only call when he’s ready to actually do his job outside of dreams as well as he does them in the mind’s eye.

Arthur tightens his grip on the cell in his hand. “Have them billed to my account,” he finally says. “And book me an appointment for next week. Thanks, Julie.”

The very next thing he does is call some of his contacts to line up a job with only one necessity – it must need a forger.

**Wear your favorite underwear**

Arthur is beginning to regret personally demanding that Eames work for them on this job. They’re lining the pieces into place, which means that Eames has to shadow the mark for the week. The mark, in this case, is a local gangster and Eames has decided to play the part by acting his most chav right down to the pants that just don’t fit.

Arthur counts sightings of Eames’ briefs in the double-digits by the mid-afternoon and he’s getting tired of seeing just the slip of an elastic waistband.

He grabs hold of the back of Eames’ jeans when he’s about to leave the warehouse for another afternoon and that seems to get Eames’ attention, forcing him to go very still for a second. “Eames,” Arthur breathes out, his fingers wound up in the loopholes of the jeans, staring down at the Calvin Klein briefs that are very new. “Your constant parading of your ass is neither warranted nor appreciated.”

He’s still holding on tightly, his thumb brushing against the crack of Eames’ ass through the denim, just close enough to know what he could do to the man if he really wanted.

Eames leans back and grins as he lets out a playful growl. “Don’t worry,” Eames says. “I wrote your name on them so everyone knows I’m taken.”

**Wash your car**

In the past, Arthur rents a car and picks up Eames whenever they go out for the day. It’s not that they’re dating – they’re not, Arthur insists, they’re not, they’re not, they’re not, they’re just two work-acquaintances who enjoy going to museums and Eames likes to see if Arthur can spot the forgery.

It seems silly to rent a car in London, though, when Eames has a personal garage and so instead of calling ahead, Arthur waits outside his hotel in a cashmere scarf wrapped snugly around his neck and a brown suede jacket falling perfectly off his shoulders.

Watching the Bugatti Veyron pull up does things to Arthur that he can’t really describe. Watching Eames step out of the driver’s seat in a perfect suit only compounds those things. These are things that Arthur thinks can never be topped.

At least, not until he wakes the next morning in Eames’ cottage and peers out the window to see Eames in nothing more than a pair of low-riding worn denims, washing the car and thoroughly, utterly, dripping wet.

Arthur had previously planned to rise for the day and get to work.

Instead, he burrows back into the sheets and wraps his hand around his cock, nearly fumbling as he desperately tries to bring himself off as fast as possible – as if he’s trying to set a record with his speed and his noise as he comes.

He takes solace in knowing that Eames is still washing the car down and can’t _possibly_ have heard.

There’s no solace in the fact that Arthur will never be able to look at certain cars or types of jeans ever again without getting hard.

**Get a new watch.**

The question has been ‘is it time?’ and Eames has taken a moment to check his watch in order to answer. It’s the watch that Arthur notices. It’s vintage, originating sometime during the Second World War, and it’s gorgeous. Arthur would commit certain crimes to possess a watch like that and he finds himself slightly breathless in want as he watches the easy way Eames fiddles with it.

“When did you pick that up?” Arthur asks, biting back his next question – _and where can I find something like it?_

Eames taps the face with two fingers. “What, this old thing? I couldn’t very well rely on a broken fob watch to give me the time. I took a page out of your book of style and found myself an antiques shop.” He loosens the clasp and unhooks it, draping it over Arthur’s wrist. “But I think, I think that it looks better on you.”

Arthur takes it tentatively, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“But as with most things and often people, I think that’s also the case,” Eames continues.

And there it is.

Arthur keeps the watch, though, and takes private pleasure in the way that Eames smiles just that much warmer the next time they meet and the watch has found a snug new home on Arthur’s wrist.

**Stop comparing yourself to others**

Arthur goes on a date with a British extractor he’s known for a decade. His name is Oliver and he went to Oxford and his hair is a disastrous mess. He wears jeans to a fancy restaurant, he doesn’t even bother to floss (as evidenced by a sprig of spinach stuck in his teeth) and he spends the whole evening rambling on about his ex.

Arthur spends the entire evening checking his cell and warring against his inner angel and devil.

 _Call Eames_ , one says. Arthur is unsure of whether this is the force of good or evil just yet. Arthur palms the phone and twists it, listening to Oliver yammer on about how his ex had him barred from Tesco and then the voice of reason (or devilry) gets louder. _Call Eames. Tell him to break this up._

Because somehow, somewhere, in the last few weeks and months, Arthur has begun to compare all potential and actual dates to Eames.

The scary part is that everyone else has come up short.

Lately, Eames has been making something of a change for himself. His clothes, his effects, and everything that surrounds him has taken on an air of class and it’s left everyone else in his path wanting. Arthur smiles politely when Oliver asks if Arthur minds if he smokes at the table. One press of his thumb to a speed-dial button and he’s sent Eames the 911.

He should be here any minute.

Arthur refuses to think about whether he’s just given in to holy benevolence or fiendish mischief by doing so. All he knows is that Oliver is no Eames.

**Align your priorities**

It’s come long past time for Arthur to ask, “What exactly is going on, Eames?” He’s been in this whirlwind of what seems like wooing and has ended up with Eames and Arthur cohabitating in a two-bedroom apartment in Paris for a job while the world goes on around them like nothing has changed.

But that’s not true, now is it? How can the world go on like nothing is the matter when Eames and Arthur are living under the same roof and Arthur is dizzy with wanting Eames, but nothing has happened? _Eames_ hasn’t made a single move. He just keeps wearing gorgeous clothes and incredible watches. He makes sense when he talks to Arthur and he accepts responsibilities.

He’s even started listening when Arthur explains math theorems.

It could very well be the apocalypse.

He asks the question just after Eames sets up the backgammon board for a rematch from weeks ago. “Eames,” Arthur reiterates, feeling lost in a sea that he can’t even name. “What is all this?”

“Just trying to get my life in order, Arthur. At least, in the order I want it in.”

As far as explanations go, it’s weak at best.

So Arthur continues to cohabitate and doesn’t pretend that he wants to abandon his bed and crawl into Eames’ most nights. He doesn’t fondle Eames’ watch (and wrist, by extension) and hardly slides his hand up his clothes.

Even though he wants to.

**Set goals**

Arthur can’t sleep.

He’s been lying awake at night with one persistent thought circling around his mind. Worse than a thought, he supposes. It’s an _idea_ and he’s well-versed in how parasitic and infiltrative an idea can be. This idea is completely self-generated and he’s beginning to worry about how deep it’s going to lodge.

 _Two weeks_ , he tells himself. _If in two weeks, Eames doesn’t make the first move, you do. You make the move in two weeks._

It lies in his brain, this idea, and begins to fester and grow.

This idea is going to be the end of him if he’s not careful.

**Take care of business at work**

Arthur is beginning to think that Eames might be doing something nefarious and that it wouldn’t hurt if Arthur had a backup plan in place. It’s only in the event that Eames goes around the bend and loses his mind and burns all of Arthur’s sweatervests or pronounces him fair game for all the women of the town.

Eames’ priorities, after all, have always been selfishly motivated, and while Arthur is fairly sure he hasn’t done anything to incur his wrath, it doesn’t hurt to put pieces into place.

He spends the precious moments while Eames is under the PASIV’s influence making phone calls to his closest relations and his lawyers, insisting that he’s only checking to make sure that everything is in order.

His sister sounds particularly worried.

“You sound like you’re about to die,” she says fearfully. “Does Mom know?”

“I’m not dying, I’m just…” _unaware whether Eames is courting me or planning a coup_. He can’t possibly say that, so instead he sighs heavily. “I’m just making sure things are in order. Just in case.”

**Organize your finances**

Arthur realizes that he’s got enough money in the bank to retire when he turns twenty-eight. When he’s twenty-eight and a day old, he goes right back to work as though he’s got nothing in the bank at all. His job is about more than money to him and he knows Eames feels the same. Still, Arthur has a healthy respect for money and so that’s why he’s practically livid when Eames tells him what his latest forgery went for.

“That’s it? Eames, who’s brokering your deals these days? If you’re doing it, you need to stop,” Arthur says sharply. “You deserve a _lot_ more than what you’re being paid, this is ridiculous.”

He continues to rant on about brushstrokes and the artistic eye and a dozen other things, so it takes him a moment to calm down from his fervor and notice that Eames is smiling fondly in his direction, seemingly paying no mind to the complaints.

“What?” Arthur sighs.

“If I’d known you would’ve gotten so worked up about my art, I would’ve started underselling years ago,” Eames says, crooking his fingers to beckon Arthur to join him. “Come. I’ve got a Monet in the spare room. You can help me appraise it and pick a fence.”

**Drop bad habits and develop good ones**

It takes some time to notice, but when he does, it strikes Arthur like a lightning bolt from the sky. Over the last four jobs and the last four crews, Eames hasn’t made a peep when Arthur hauls out the four-syllable words to ensure that plans are continuing apace. ‘Spontaneous’ goes by without a word, ‘proprietary’ only gets a twitch, and even ‘soporific’ elicits nothing from Eames.

It’s, frankly, almost worrying.

“Eames,” Arthur says as he pulls him aside to try and find out if something is wrong. “Is everything okay with you?”

He doesn’t want to put it down in words that he almost misses Eames mocking Arthur’s university-level vocabulary. It had begun to make him almost fond to know that whenever he used a word that hinted at intelligence, Eames would suddenly act as though he had dropped most of his IQ points on the street below.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Eames replies pleasantly.

“I just said the words ‘integral alignment in perceiving reality’ and you didn’t mock any of them,” Arthur goes on, like he’s somehow become accustomed to having his metaphorical pigtails pulled all the time.

“You always bristled when I did and then lost track of the idea for an hour,” Eames says, casting a glance over Arthur’s shoulder to check on the others. “I thought perhaps, maybe, just possibly, I shouldn’t be holding you back on the job so much. Good habits, yes?” He flashes the briefest of smiles before he’s all-business again and heads back to the session.

**Cut dead weight**

Ever since Arthur has known Eames, the forger hasn’t kept his French mistress much of a secret. Elyse has always been a bee in the bonnet that Arthur occasionally pulls out when he thinks about that two week goal he set to Eames and this little courting ritual that seems to be happening. He’s aware that he can’t demand monogamy of a man who hasn’t even won him, but there’s a part of him that thinks that if Eames wants Arthur, Elyse wouldn’t be in the picture anymore.

She’s been by the Paris apartment twice since they’ve been there, but there have never been any incriminating noises permeating from the bedroom during her visits. Instead, the first visit had been a cooking lesson for Eames and during the second, she brought over a bag of heels and coached Eames with chastising and perfect French as he rehearsed his walk.

She’s due to come over again that evening and Arthur is bracing himself for the inevitable.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks as he helps Eames unpack cloth bags of groceries, artichokes set on the counter and white wine bottles all lined up in a row.

Eames looks at Arthur with great confusion. “Why, do you have plans elsewhere?”

“No, I mean, so you and Elyse can have, you know…”

“What do I know?”

“Privacy,” Arthur chokes out, half in disbelief he has to spell this out for Eames. The other half of him is currently broiling with frustration. “Unless your plan was to inundate me with noise while the two of you screwed.”

The confused expression on Eames’ face shifts to absolute amusement. “Darling, you do know Elyse and I broke up some time ago. I’m, apparently, no good for her. She says it’s because I’m English, but if anything, I should be the one permitted to be bitter. 1066 and all,” he drawls with a smirk on his lips.

“You broke up with her?” Arthur knows he’s repeating information he doesn’t need repeated, but maybe he needs it so his mind can take the information for what it is: a signal that maybe things aren’t so hopeless on the Eames-front after all.

This is _good news_.

“Don’t look so thrilled,” Eames murmurs as he leans in to press a palm to Arthur’s forearm. “You’re not her type.”

 _So long as I’m yours_ , goes unspoken, but firmly thought.

**Change your latitude**

“We’ve been made.”

Arthur hurries to his feet when Eames speaks those dreadful three words, needing no more than that to know that they have to vacate the Paris apartment and _fast_. They’re never dealing with particularly kind people, but the latest mark has been dangerous and possessed ties to the mob and so it’s very serious that they don’t linger. They need to just _go_.

They’ve done this countless times before, but Arthur can’t help feeling that he’s losing _something_ by leaving this time around. He checks that thought at the door and turns his thoughts to more important things like safety.

Eames is ready to go in minutes, only one bag clasped in hand. He tucks his passports away and looks to Arthur for the next decision. “Off the continent?” he suggests.

“How are your connections in the States?”

“Eastern seaboard? Fine,” Eames says as they hurry down to get the car and get to a plane. “Not so good on the West.”

“Maine,” is what Arthur says after a long minute. “We’ll go to Maine.”

**Hit the gym**

Being forced out of Paris has brought something to Arthur’s attention. Outside of dreams, neither he nor Eames is in the best of shape when it comes to eluding the enemies. Arthur buys them new running shoes and foists them on Eames, who protests from the very first moment.

“Arthur,” Eames sighs, but he’s bent over and sliding his feet into the shoes, legs clad in spandex and a runner’s shirt overtop his torso, “Part of being the best is being so good that you never _have_ to run away. Don’t make me do this.”

Arthur is temporarily distracted by how _good_ Eames looks in his running gear, but he dismisses distracting thoughts in the blink of an eye.

“Eames, what would happen if you were like Cobb?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just accuse me of being a single-minded idiot,” Eames says mildly, a hint of tension in his voice, “who would sacrifice anything for his family.”

“Just because you never had a family to sacrifice anything for…” Arthur replies heatedly, defending Cobb at the same time that he wants to get a jab in at Eames.

He should expect the fight that comes next. Arthur fights dirty with information that he’s compiled that no one else would know and Eames fights back just as messily with all the things that his grifter’s eye has picked up over the years, cutting Arthur down into neat little ribbons of neuroses and traits.

They don’t manage to make it out that day.

At least their tongues have grown progressively sharper.

**Start running**

Arthur returns back to the sleepy Maine bungalow three days after their fight to find Eames looping up the laces of his shoes, casting a sheepish look up at Arthur. Arthur’s been out at a hotel until he could calm and clear his mind, aware that fighting with Eames until they couldn’t stand each other would feel good in the moment, but would make him miserable over the long-term.

Arthur drapes his suit jacket over the table in the foyer, raising a brow as he studies Eames.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought it might be obvious,” Eames replies. He’s not wearing the tight outfit, but rather a loose pair of grey sweats and a baggy t-shirt that’s seen better days. “After our little tiff the other day,” he says, like they had a mild disagreement instead of a drag-down-and-out fight that Arthur was sure would change them, “I put some thought to your words. And you were right.”

Arthur stands there, staring blankly at Eames.

“Well?”

“What?”

“You were right,” Eames repeats. “I thought maybe you would like to do a dance of righteous and stubborn victory.”

“Just, give me a second, and I’ll get my things. I’ll come with you,” Arthur says instead, stunned by the fact that Eames hasn’t stormed off for another country and is actually taking Arthur’s advice against all his better judgment. It’s more hope than Arthur generally lets himself have.

**Take up a new hobby**

Arthur has been busy trying to find them a new place to go to in the event that their enemies discover the Maine house the way they did the Paris apartment. It’s always useful to have back-up plans in place. He spends his days talking to old contacts and making new ones while Eames stays home and…well, Arthur isn’t sure what he does until he returns back early one night and finds Eames sitting on the couch with knitting needles.

Far be it for Arthur to be shocked by anything, given that he’s the font of information, but this happens to shock him. “…Eames?” he warily asks, just in case an evil doppelganger has managed to slide in and take over while Arthur was out making calls.

“You’re early,” Eames says, barely glancing up.

“Is this some kind of front? You pretend to knit before you stab your enemies in the eyes with the needles?”

“No. Well,” Eames says after a moment’s pause, “actually, that wouldn’t be so terrible, would it? No. No, this is a way to alleviate stress.”

“What stress?” Arthur asks suspiciously.

Eames stays suspiciously silent on the subject, which Arthur never takes as a good sign. He presses his lips firmly together and eyes him, trying to distinguish whether or not he should push the topic.

In the end, he joins Eames on the couch and flips at the wool. “At least make me a pair of socks.”

“I was thinking perhaps I’d start with a scarf. Can’t have you getting a chill. And it does wonders to cover _things_ ,” he says, with such an air of mystery that Arthur wonders how universal ‘things’ can be and whether he should be letting his mind slip into the dangerous territory that comes of wanting to know if Eames intends to give him something to cover up along with the object that will do just the trick.

**Join a public sports league**

Arthur never would have attempted a sport like badminton if not for the fact that there’s a man in the league who goes by Wisher and has an incredible rep in the dream business. He can find anyone’s trail and he can track it back. Arthur needs him in order to silence the chatter going around the world when it comes to him and Eames.

Thus, badminton.

Arthur clenches the racquet tightly, not used to something so precarious and flimsy. He’s more used to manning guns and weapons, but if this is the sport that will get him to safety, then he’ll do anything. He arranges the league so that he goes up against Wisher two weeks in a row, making as charming an impression as he can muster.

This is usually Eames’ territory, but Eames had sworn the job off with a shudder about ‘repressed memories and shuttlecocks’.

“I know who you are, you know,” Wisher says when they finish their game and Arthur manages not to lose by too gross a margin. “Everyone in the industry knows. I take it that’s your problem?”

“Eames and I need to lose the trail for a while. If you can help, there’s incentive in it for you. Money,” Arthur guarantees. “There’s nobody like you, Wisher. You’re a man with talents unique to the world.”

“I’ll do it,” Wisher says, giving a gap-toothed grin. He’s a man in his late forties, black hair going to grey, lean and wiry. “But I don’t need money. But bring Eames around next time. I’ll take a couple of games on the court in payment. Arthur and Eames,” he chuckles ruefully. “Never thought I’d see the day when you two left a trail.”

“It’s unfortunate,” Arthur agrees. “But everyone slips up now and then.”

“You didn’t used to.”

Arthur knows that. “Well, times change,” is all he says. “Erase our trail and I’ll bring Eames around.” Even if he knows that’s a fight he’s going to have to pull out every big gun for, it’ll be worth it to secure their safety. Eames will understand that.

**Learn a new language**

Arthur doesn’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way and during all the cohabitation, Arthur has somehow become an expert when it comes to the Language of Eames. Whether verbal or body language, there are little cues and tics that Arthur couldn’t have named six years ago when they first met.

Now, he’s practically a walking dictionary.

Arthur finds himself explaining to extractors that Eames’ nonchalant and dismissive attitude has nothing to do with them and only to do with his mood or the job of the day. He can interpret a simple tic and translate it into a full paragraph.

He knows Eames inside and out and instead of scaring him, it thrills Arthur to know he’s grown fluent.

Eames opens his mouth from across the table, breakfast sitting between them, and Arthur interrupts before he even has a chance to speak. “We’re eating healthy food because it’s good for us, Eames,” he says evenly. “No argument.”

Eames smirks and sets back to his porridge. He never does say if Arthur had been correct in interpreting the pinched brow and the open mouth, but Arthur knows him well-enough to know that he’s at least in the right neighborhood when it comes to the guess.

**Get nostalgic**

It’s an old photograph that does it. Arthur doesn’t like to think too much about his first years in the business. He was sloppy, clumsy, and made mistakes. So did Eames, but the man rolled with every blow like he’d planned it all along. Arthur has been going through old things when he finds the photo of him – red as a beet – and Eames laughing over his shoulder.

Arthur had just insulted the President of France. Eames had found it _absolutely_ hilarious.

Mal, of course, had been mortified. She had nationalistic pride to think about, of course.

Arthur stares at the photograph and the care with which it’s been framed and feels a pressure in his chest threatening to break him. After all the small gestures and all the attention from Eames, it’s this picture that breaks him. When Eames returns from his day at the office (surveying the newest mark), Arthur is waiting.

He’s been standing in the front hall for twenty-five minutes just waiting for this. He lets Eames get in the front door and allows him to hang up his jacket and put his keys away. Then he stops dallying around the elephant in the room and pushes forward to thread his fingers into Eames’ hair and kiss him with heavy need and _want_.

Eames rests a considerate hand at the small of Arthur’s back and collects him closely. “Hello,” he murmurs in soft exhalation, his voice a heady combination of what Arthur wants to think is surprise and lust. “What was that for?”

“It was time.”

Two weeks and two days past time, in fact.

**Listen to music that gets you going**

Arthur comes back to the apartment to hear low music filtering out from the second bedroom. It’s got a heavy undertone to it, the bass steady and constant. Arthur’s uncharitable thoughts go immediately to fucking. Arthur nudges the door open just slightly and peeks inside to see if he’s just caught Eames with someone else, but there’s only Eames and a canvas, his iPod plugged into a speaker. The music pours into the room, thick and heavy, and Arthur can feel it vibrating down to his bones.

Eames is thoroughly stained, paint swiped across his face.

It’s more than Arthur can process in combination with the music. He barely lets Eames say hello before Arthur pries off his shoes, hauls his shirt off without taking a single button off. He pushes Eames by the shoulders and gets him horizontal before climbing right on top.

“Let’s make a mess,” Arthur encourages as he leans down to kiss Eames.

**Watch your favorite movies of all time**

Arthur has been out looking for leads on new jobs they can take. Arthur is growing tired of only taking easy one-day jobs. Spending the majority of their time screwing is a good hobby and all, but Arthur is starting to get sore in places he didn’t think could remain sore as long as he has.

So Arthur has been out making calls and meeting contacts.

Eames, meanwhile, seems content to be a layabout. He’s sprawled on the couch in his pajama pants and a t-shirt, hand on the remote and legs spread. “I don’t even want to know,” Arthur sighs when he finds him, sliding his peacoat off and hanging it by the door. He gets one glance at the DVD’s scattered on the table and gets both an idea of how long Eames has been there and what he’s been doing. “Eames, not again…”

“Look, I’m just saying, it could be helpful!”

“We are not taking tips from heist movies. Especially not Ocean’s Thirteen,” Arthur says in complaint, holding up the case.

“Ah, yes, see,” Eames says as he sits up. “That one is slightly less for the tips and far more for the delectable way George Clooney wears trousers. I could pull off a jewel heist better than that crew. You could, even,” he says disparagingly.

As far as compliments from Eames go, Arthur will take it.

“Move over,” Arthur orders, sliding down onto the couch, resigned to his fate for the evening.

**Bring your friends close and family even closer**

In the end, Arthur doesn’t actually tell anyone, but the word is out that he and Eames have been inseparable as of late. Their secret is out for good when Arthur opens the front door and finds Ariadne on the stoop with two heavy textbooks in hand. “Oh, good,” she says, like they’ve seen each other last week instead of months ago. “I didn’t want to get a hotel,” she continues, barging in and studying the walls like they’re going to divulge secrets. “Is Eames here?”

“Why should I know?”

“Aren’t you his keeper now?” Ariadne asks dubiously. “That’s what I keep hearing around the world. Well, there’s some unflattering stuff, too, but I mostly try and ignore it because it’s just a lot of rumor that sounds like it belongs in a badly written book.”

Arthur sighs and closes the door behind him. He’s learned through Cobb’s and his own experiences that when Ariadne has something set in her mind, there’s nothing that will keep her from it. It looks like she’s decided to stay with them. Arthur’s not displeased, but he would have preferred fair warning.

“Eames is out,” he says, crossing his arms over his torso. “What are people saying?”

“You know,” she says with a bemused smile, “Torrid workplace romance. Eames seduced you in a dream looking like your favorite actress. There’s one,” she says, using her finger to emphasize the point, “where they say that it’s all part of an elaborate con you’re both running, some long game that’ll make you richer than the oil sheiks.”

“I like that last one,” Arthur says evenly. “Let’s just say it’s that.”

They settle in and she arranges her textbooks while he puts on _Sabrina_ in the background. Eames still hasn’t come home, but Arthur is used to that. Eames comes and goes, per his whims. Just because Arthur’s suddenly inherited the responsibility of ‘keeper’ doesn’t mean he’s going to change the way Eames works.

“Doesn’t it bug you?” Ariadne wonders. “That you have no idea where he is?”

“Not really,” Arthur admits, searching through his DVD collection for something else to put on. “Eames knows as well as I do that if he expects to stay with me and for this to work, he’s going to come home to me. I may not trust _him_ entirely, but I do trust that.”

And when he puts it like that, he’s more than aware that he has nothing to worry about. Eames always looks out for himself, so if he does really want this, he’ll preserve it by keeping an eye on his best interests and not fucking Arthur over. He wonders how fast he can circulate that information to the dreamsharing community and makes a mental note to tell Ariadne to spread the word.

But only after they watch _The Great Escape_.

**Rekindle some of those long dormant dreams**

It comes to light eventually.

It’s a year and a half later and Arthur had taken Eames out for a walk along the Seine so that they could buy a new bottle of cologne for Eames and new shoes for Arthur, enjoying the sunset while they strolled along the riverbank with bags in hand. “All those things you did, back then,” Arthur muses as he gives Eames a slight nudge with his shoulder.

“That?” Eames laughs and shakes his head. “Oh, Arthur, it was ridiculous. Honestly, I’m surprised it even worked.”

“What was it?”

“Well, Saito, man of the year that he is, quoted something in an article of his.” They’ve all kept tabs on both Fischer and Saito because when a tourist completes inception with you, you want to watch them in the event they suddenly turn. “And he brought up this little tiny program he was following. Thirty ways to get your swagger back,” he says, and the way he says ‘swagger’ makes Arthur’s cock twitch in interest.

He wonders if Ariadne would bail them out if they were arrested for public indecency.

“And so I thought,” Eames is still talking as they stroll idly, the sun reflecting perfectly on still waters, “thirty ways to make myself appealing. Thirty ways to win Arthur.”

“Win me?”

“Woo you?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Eames,” he says, calm and vaguely amused. “Get under that bridge, take your pants off, and be glad I already had a thing for you. And find me a copy of that article.”

He refuses to admit, of course, that he’s grown attached to the wardrobe, the watches, and very much the car. Most of all, he refuses to admit how used to the _man_ he’s become. Consider him won.

THE END


End file.
